


Memories of Fire

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Oneshot, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield never expected to find his One in a small, rowdy inn in the Shire on a cold and rainy night. </p>
<p>Inspired by Ed Sheeran's beautiful song, "I See Fire"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty, schmoopy oneshot! I'm usually not a huge fan of Songfics, but I couldn't get this out of my head since I heard "I See Fire." Hope you enjoy it!  
> *Also, as it is unknown exactly how hobbits were created, I simply went with the explanation that they are made by the Green Mother, or Yavanna, as hobbits are creatures of nature and peace.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to J.R.R Tolkien. The lyrics of "I See Fire" in the fic belong to Ed Sheeran. I make no claim to the items mentioned above. I am simply writing this to improve my skill and out of love for the books and song.

The Green Dragon, however plain and battered it appeared on the outside, was a welcoming sight for Thorin’s travel-weary eyes that night. Rain had descended upon the land in a rapid and heavy onslaught, as though the gods frowned upon those beings so brazen to roam the wilderness after dusk’s fall. Puddles had formed in miniature lakes along the winding pathways of the Shire, causing the already dour dwarf prince to skirt and leap haphazardly around them in his haste to reach shelter.

 

He’d been traveling for quite a bit of time by then, on his way to test the markets within the Shire and as far as Bree and Weatherton for healthy trade connections with his people in the Blue Mountains. Normally, this would have been a job for Balin, who oversaw the majority of the external trade agreements with neighboring peoples, but Thorin had found himself a bit restless in the past few months. He’d been cooped up in their settlement for too long, his thoughts drifting always to the lone mountain far to the east and to memories of a past long since behind. 

 

Now, however, he seriously regretted his haste to leave the keep. For all the alleged beauty of the Shire, all Thorin had seen the past few days of struggling through the myriad of winding roads and quaint little burrows was the heavy lining of his cloak where it draped over his brow, shielding him from the heavy rain.

 

“Damn it in fire and grind it by stone”, he muttered, shouldering his way into the lit up tavern. Noise and heat were immediately upon him, loud pealing laughter and raucous bouts of song rending the night air. A blazing fire, large and unbelievably hot, warmed the bare skin of his face, where not covered by his wet beard and braids. The room seemed to hold an impossible amounts of hobbits, all curly haired and barefoot and in various states of inebriation. A young hobbit lad sat upon the brim of the fire, a pipe hanging from his lip and a string instrument perched precariously in his lap, his hands moving anxiously as he recounted some tale to his nearby friends.

 

Thorin watched this merriment with tired amusement as he strode toward the nearby counter of the bar, grateful that he wasn’t overshadowed by its height as he was in the cities of Men. He knocked politely but assertively to alert the barman to his presence.

 

“Aye, sorry, sir. Wasn’t payin’ attention as I should have.” The older hobbit gave a small hiccup, his round cheeks and large frame shaking in small chortles. His small brown eyes seemed a bit glassy to the dwarf. _A bit too much drink_ , he surmised.

 

“Anyway, what can I do for ye, Master Dwarf?” The other continued, already pulling a new mug out from under the counter and swiveling around to open the keg.

 

“I’d like a private room for a few days, if you have one available,” Thorin answered shortly.

 

“Certainly, certainly,” The barman set the drink down in front of Thorin and pulled a small book and a quill out from under the counter as well. “How many days precisely, Mr…?”

 

“Blackstone. And three days would be about right.”

 

If the barman found the name odd or suspicious, he ignored that in favor of setting up the arrangement and taking Thorin’s gold. As the hobbit hummed and jotted down the plans, Thorin took a long draw from his drink and nearly coughed from the stoutness of the brew. These hobbits could brew a good drink, then. This little adventure was looking more promising by the minute.

 

“And that, my dear hobbit lads and lasses, is why it is a bit foolhardy to challenge a Took to a drinking contest! Aye? Aye?” The dark haired hobbit that had sat on the fireplace suddenly shouted to the crowd, a statement that drew tumultuous laughter. His apparently defeated opponent was slumped over on the table nearest to the fire, his mug of ale spilled over and seeping into his clothing.

 

Thorin snorted at that and turned back with some amusement as he heard the barman do the same.

 

“Is there some large celebration tonight? Or are all hobbit establishments as merry?” He asked softly, taking care not to sound impolite. He did not know much of hobbits, other than they were a peaceful and hospitable people. Thorin could not help but feel a bit of bitterness at the frivolity of the hobbits when his own people had nearly just recovered from tragedy and despair. It was unfair to the hobbits to feel as such, as they’d had nothing at all to do with the loss of Erebor, and yet Thorin was envious of their freedom, a luxury his people and family had strived and suffered for for too long a time.

 

“Ah, well, the rain’ll bring them all in regardless of the day, but most of them came of age this past spring. Now they’re all in a tither about finding their true mate or smokin’ all me pipe weed or drinking and singing until the sun rises. I’d toss the lot of them out for all the trouble, if they weren’t half me business.” The barman gave another snort, accidentally slopping ale down the front of his shirt.

 

Thorin was briefly curious about the ‘true mate’ bit, as he knew nothing of hobbit mating rituals or marriage, but he reasoned that would be too personal a thing to tell a new stranger.

 

“So I should expect to find it a bit difficult to fall asleep tonight.” Thorin gave the hobbit a small grin, the ale he’d drunk filling his belly and body with sweet warmth. Though he was still uncomfortable in his soggy clothes and tired from travel, the warmth and welcome of the tavern were doing much for his nerves. 

 

The barman gave a bark of laughter and leaned against the counter next to him with a rueful grin. “Well, it’s certainly a possibility, I won’t lie. But if it gets too noisy in here for ye, just let me know an’ I’ll have the lot of them pipe down.”

 

The older hobbit smiled warmly out into the room, and Thorin could tell he was very fond of his young patrons, if a bit exasperated. For a moment, the barman seemed to grow suddenly still, and his lopsided grin fell into a small frown.

 

The dwarf followed his gaze to a young hobbit lad, seated next to the loud curly haired ‘Took’ that had been boasting about his drinking prowess earlier. He was a rather slight hobbit compared to his friends, though the finery of his vest and shirt meant he was most likely wealthier than most. He had curly golden hair, peachy skin and a button nose, and green eyes, as far as Thorin could tell from his seat across the room. He was certainly a comely lad, though he seemed markedly less energetic. As Thorin watched, the hobbit lad would give only small smiles to his boisterous friends and his eyes stared unseeingly into the fire. If Thorin had to pick one word to describe him, the dwarf would say the hobbit seemed…sad.

 

“Might not be necessary, though,” The barman muttered and stared down thoughtfully into his drink, not noticing the miniscule jump that Thorin gave as he realized he’d not been paying attention.

 

“Why do you say that, if I may ask?”

 

The barman’s eyes darted back to the young hobbit lad again, before resting on Thorin’s with an odd solemnity, given his drunken state. “Ye don’t know much about hobbits, do ye, Master Dwarf?”

 

“Regrettably, no, I do not. But my business has brought me here to search for favorable trade, and your people seem agreeable.” Thorin replied lowly, careful not to share too much about his purpose. However cheery and open the hobbit seemed, Thorin was still a foreign traveler and, though the other man was not aware of it, a high profile traveler at that.

 

“Well, ye seem like a nice enough sort, even if ye are an outsider.” The hobbit harrumphed and dragged a knobby old stool to sit across from Thorin with the air of a man about to tell a long tale. “I suppose I could give ye a bit of, uh… _special_ information about my people. Mind ye, it’s not a secret or anything of the like, but it’s…sensitive information.” He raised one bushy eyebrow at the dwarf, who leaned in closer with a serious expression on his handsome face.

 

“Your information is safe with me. My word is as unyielding and strong as stone.” A bit dramatic, he knew, but he wanted to make a good impression on the hobbit. Barmen and innkeepers held an incredible wealth of information and networks that extended far beyond the city borders of their domain. One good word could make Thorin’s venture much more lucrative.

 

“Well then, that’s mighty fine,” He gave Thorin a pleased smile, before casting another look to his young patrons. “Ye see, I don’t know how it is with dwarves, but hobbits are a pre-destined sort of race.” At the dwarf’s confused look, he elaborated. “When we’re brought into life by the Green Mother, our souls are tired to another, a true mate that we can find eternal happiness with. Now, when hobbit lads and lasses come of age, the Goddess sends us a dream meant to aid us in our search for our true mate.”

 

“A dream?” Thorin questioned, looking thoughtful.

 

“Yes. Most of us don’t remember much of the dream, except the Dreamsong.” He took a long drink from his flagon, the corner of his lip turning up as Thorin shifted a bit impatiently.

 

“And what is this Dreamsong?” Thorin prompted curiously.

 

These ‘songs’ and ‘dreams’ seemed very similar to the Dwarven way of having Ones. Dwarves too were born with a fated mate, whose voice would strike a cord so deep within a dwarf that his heart would melt like molten gold at the sound of it. Thorin had not had first hand experience with that, as he had not encountered his One yet, but Dwalin had. The warrior dwarf seemed determined to wait until Ori was of age, though, before approaching him, despite Balin and Thorin’s encouragement to the contrary.

 

“The Dreamsong is the Goddess’s way of giving us a hint of our mate as well as a bit of comfort to those who…well, those who have to wait for their mate to arrive.” This statement seemed to make him uncomfortable, and his eyes darted once again to the golden haired hobbit by the fire.

 

“And…is that normal? To have to wait?” Thorin prompted softly.

 

The older hobbit coughed and shuffled his hands around his ale. “A few months, maybe. A year at most, but…there are some exceptions. Well…one exception.”

 

He did not continue and seemed to drop off into his thoughts, leaving Thorin to wonder after the peculiar atmosphere the conversation had created. Clearly, by the small glances the barman was still shooting the young hobbit by the fire, that the particular lad was perhaps one of the odd exceptions that the barman had hinted at, but Thorin could not understand why the subject seemed to be so…sensitive. Some Dwarves pass through over half of their lifetime without meeting their One. Perhaps hobbits were just that incredibly predictable in their mating habits.

 

“Wait, what does this have to do with the my getting a quality night’s sleep?” Thorin asked.

 

“Oh! Oh, right…well, occasionally, these young folk will come down to the pub to sing and be merry. As I’m sure ye’ve noticed.” He gave Thorin a lopsided grin before continuing, “Many of the songs ye’ll hear are actual Dreamsongs. Taverns like me fine establishment are great ways of meetin’ yer significant other. Many a couple has formed here in the ol’ Green Dragon.”

 

“This all sounds like a merry occasion, one that would produce loud noise and partying and keep me up at night,” Thorin remarked with a returning smirk.

 

“Well, yes. Most times they are great fun; usually because most Dreamsongs are jigs or dances. Happy songs, ye know, that give ye clues about yer true mate. But sometimes…sometimes, they are sung for comfort.” The barman seemed to become somber again and gave a small grimace.

 

“The young lad by the fire?” Thorin asked lowly. He felt that he was nearly pushing the boundary of propriety with that question, but admittedly, he was tired of skirting around the obvious issue. Perhaps the ale was making him a bit too bold….

 

“Drogo Baggins? Oh, no, he’s as jolly and foolhardy a lad can be. He’s found his true mate, about a fortnight ago, I believe. Primula Brandybuck. His parents were thrilled to have that match, I tell ye,” He snorted with derision. “A Baggins marrying a Brandybuck. There hasn’t been so much talk since Bungo and…Belladonna….”

 

Thorin watched with his brow furrowed as he trailed off again, his eyes looking a bit watery. Noticing that the dwarf was watching him with some concern, the hobbit coughed loudly and cleared his throat.

 

“Bungo Baggins was as proper a gentlehobbit that ye could find, and Belladonna as adventurous as any Took there ever was. Biggest upheaval the Shire’s ever seen, when Belladonna sang her Dreamsong and drew Bungo with her voice.” His voice became choked with emotion, and he was forced to clear his throat once more. “That’s their son, sitting next to Drogo. Bilbo Baggins.”

 

_Finally, a name_ , Thorin thought and turned to look at the young lad once more. He was leaning in to hear his friend Drogo whisper something in his ear.

 

“Is he the exception, then?” Thorin asked with a raised eyebrow.

 

The barman gave a start and looked at him with some surprise. “Ye’re sharper than I knew, Master Blackstone. Yes, Bilbo is a bit of an exception with regard to our mating rituals, which comes at no surprise given who his parents were.”

 

“Is…is he without a Dreamsong?”

 

All dwarves were born with Ones, but Thorin had known a dwarf, a fellow warrior, who had lost his One at a very young age. The loss had nearly killed him, when his One had died, but he had lived on. If you could call it such. Never once had Thorin seen him truly smile or laugh. The dwarf had lived for the sake of protecting Erebor and the crown alone, his home empty of family or close friends, his life empty of joy and adventure. It was believed he had died in the Battle of Azanulbizar. Thorin hoped he had finally found relief from his solitary existence.

 

“No, no! He has a Dreamsong, a very lovely one at that. A handsome voice as well!” The barman hastened to correct him. “ It’s just that…it’s a very sad Dreamsong and…his true mate has not stepped forward yet.”

 

“Oh….” Thorin hummed thoughtfully. For such a good-humored race, Thorin supposed a sorrowful Dreamsong would be cause for alarm.

 

“For awhile,” the hobbit continued, “we all kept waiting for his true mate to step forward, even before he sang, but…then he did, and…well, I suspect that his true mate might be of another race,” he whispered conspiratorially.

 

“I am guessing that that is unusual,” Thorin said with a speculative frown.

 

“ _Very_ unusual, yes.” He nodded enthusiastically. “And it’s been quite a bit of time since he became of age, so I thought—oh, looks like he is going to sing tonight.”

 

Thorin turned his head at that to see that the young hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, had stepped onto the stage in front of the fire, his head bowed. The surrounding hobbits grew quickly silent and watched him as well, their eyes shining with sympathy. They even refrained from drinking and eating, instead folding their hands in front of them or grasping the shoulder of the hobbit next to them. Given their very recent exuberance, Thorin was a bit shell-shocked.

 

“Looks like ye’ll be gettin’ a good night’s rest after all, Master Dwarf,” The barman uttered quietly.

 

Thorin turned to reply but was interrupted by a voice, smooth and sure, as it sang in the night air, slamming into Thorin’s body with all the force of a large swinging anvil.

 

_Oh, misty eye of the mountain below,_

_Keep careful watch of my brothers’ souls_

_And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke_

_Keep watching over Durin’s sons_

A guitar began playing once the voice ended that last note, but Thorin was too shocked and entranced to notice. He could see the hobbit lad, curly hair shining gold in the firelight, his eyes shining with emotion, his mouth open in beautiful song. One of his hands was pressed to his chest, as if to protect himself from the sorrow of his voice.

_If this is to end in fire,_

_Then we should all all burn together._

_Watch the flames climb high into the night._

_Calling out, Father, oh_

_Stand by and we will watch_

_The flames burn auburn on the mountain side_

There was no mistaking the story told by this song nor the voice that gave it life. Thorin could feel it deep within him, seeping into his body and tightening around his lungs. This was the story of the desolation of Smaug, the ruination of a beautiful land and an even fuller life; this was Erebor’s fall. And the voice singing it! Oh, that smooth song, soft but powerful and full of passion and sorrow, that melted the hardened steel of Thorin’s bones and tenderized him with heat and feeling.

 

_And if we should die tonight,_

_Then we should all die together._

_Raise a glass of wine for the last time._

_Calling out, Father, oh_

_Prepare as we will_

_Watch the flames burn auburn on the mountainside_

_Desolation comes upon the sky._

Thorin remembered those words shouted by his father before he led their troops against the oncoming dragon, that last testament to dwarven brotherhood and defense of home, and he struggled against the tears filling his eyes. The loss of his home and then his grandfather and father in quick succession throbbed painfully in his chest, a large gaping wound that had never had the time or will to scar. That pain had empowered him to shoulder the responsibility of his birth, to lead his people across great distances and through harsh times to find a better life for all. To protect his sister Dís and her young sons, his nephews Fíli and Kíli, his last remaining family.

 

_Now I see fire, inside the mountain._

_I see fire, burning the trees._

_And I see fire, hollowing souls._

_I see fire, blood in the breeze._

_And I hope that you’ll remember me._

Thorin could see it all, the memories this song evoked. He could see the strong stonewalls and pathways of Erebor crumbling, the warrior dwarves sent flying into the abyss below, their screams renting the air. Chaos, a whirlwind of fire and death upon them, a curse on the wealth of their people now stolen. He could see the fire, blood red and shimmering gold rivers, mixing, burning, killing, destroying, devouring everything in its path. A seemingly endless wave of fiery death.

 

Lost in his memories, Thorin did not see the concerned face of the barman as he watched his new acquaintance stiffen and curl in on himself, his hands tight into fists and his head bowed. On the stage, Bilbo stood, seeming both strong and fragile before his friends, singing from his heart. Drogo continued to strum the string instrument lowly, nodding with approval when their other cousin Adalgrim took up his instrument and bow.

 

_Oh, should my people fall,_

_Then surely I’ll do the same._

_Confined in mountain halls,_

_We got too close to the flame._

_Calling out, Father, oh_

_Holdfast and we will_

_Watch the flames burn auburn on the mountainside._

_Desolation comes upon the sky._

_Now I see fire, inside the mountain._

_I see fire, burning the trees._

_And I see fire, hollowing souls._

_I see fire, blood in the breeze._

_And I hope that you’ll remember me._

Thorin forced his eyes open, needing to see the one bringing so many old wounds to the surface. He had always known that these injuries had never healed, that they would never heal, but he had buried them long ago. He had never expected to waltz into some random tavern in the Shire and become agonized by them, to have them brought to the light by a being had never met before in his long lifetime. He had never thought that he would be made to relive that past by a being he had never met.

 

The being on that stage now seemed completely different than the young hobbit that had sat silently at that table near the fire, his eyes cast down and his mouth frowning. Now, the hobbit stood with glorious purpose, his small hands pressed tightly against his chest, his handsome face strained with his overflowing emotion, his emerald eyes glittering with tears. He sang as if the fire burned him where he stood, savaged him then as it did in his dreams.

 

_And if the night is burning, I’ll cover my eyes._

_For if the dark returns, my brothers will die._

_And as the sky’s falling down,_

_It crashed into this lonely town._

_With that shadow upon the ground,_

_I hear my people screaming now._

Thorin stood up from his stool, reaching a hand to the bar to steady him. He felt caught between the past and the present, that heartfelt voice his only anchor. The hobbits surrounding the room began to sing alongside Bilbo, their voices strong and sweet as well, and given a clear moment’s thought, Thorin would have wondered at their knowing the words.

 

_Now I see fire, inside the mountain._

_I see fire, burning the trees._

_And I see fire, hollowing souls._

_I see fire, blood in the breeze._

_And I see fire._

_Oh, you know I saw a city burning._

_I see fire._

_Feel the heat upon my skin._

_And I see fire burn auburn on the mountainside._

Bilbo’s voice reached high over his friends and ensnared Thorin’s complete attention, his song triumphing over the memories. As the song drew to a close, tears finally fell down Bilbo’s cheeks though his eyes were clenched shut. A trembling hand covered his mouth as his shoulders began to shake, the song bringing forth memories as vivid and painful as Thorin’s. Because they were Thorin’s.

 

Thorin’s memories, his pain, his sorrow, his rage. Bilbo Baggins had been the keeper of these for so long. He had born these memories of the worst day of Thorin’s life, the tragedy that had taken nearly everything the dwarf had called dear and familiar. The hobbit must have kept these memories, this song, for years and years, perhaps since birth even. He must have sung it so often his friends and acquaintances knew the words to perfection. And yet, Thorin could see that regardless of the time he had held this song or the frequency he had sung it, the pain still stung him as deeply as it must have that very first time, long ago.

 

Thorin stood before the stage without recalling the walk there. Bilbo was so close. The dwarf could smell the faintest traces of lavender and rain, mixing with the heavy smell of smoke from the fire. He could see the smooth and creamy skin of the hobbit’s neck and cheeks, now wet and flushed. He wanted badly to reach toward him, to grasp his shoulders as gently as he could manage and pull him into his arms, to never let him leave there again.

 

But he waited for Bilbo to look at him. He waited for him to wipe the tears from his cheeks and to let his hand fall from his mouth. He waited for him to take steadying breaths to calm himself before finally opening his eyes.

 

The room had become impossibly silent; none of the surrounding hobbits dared to even breath as they watched with wide eyes at the dwarf standing before the hobbit on the stage, their eyes locked with one another.

 

Bilbo gave a couple sniffles, still seeming overwrought with emotion, before clearing his throat and looking at the dwarf below him with watery curiosity. “May—May I help you?”

 

Thorin struggled with words, not sure what exactly he was supposed to say in such a situation. His heart was beating impossibly fast in his chest. Despite having given the barman an alias, despite having never met the hobbit before in his life, despite being surrounded in a room full of strangers, Thorin was unable to tell Bilbo Baggins anything but the truth. 

 

“My name is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. And I have never heard a voice as beautiful as yours nor a song as sorrowful, as the one you have sung for us tonight.” He paused at that, swallowing beyond the lump in his throat. “It is a tale I know quite well, as it is my own.”

 

He watched anxiously as Bilbo gasped, his comely face flushing, his green eyes shining with shock and hope. He continued on, bolstered by that hope. “I have waited quite a long time for you, and you for me. I know that we have only just met, but I feel it as sure as my bones are made of steel and my heart—“

 

Thorin suddenly found himself with an armful of hobbit, as Bilbo lurched forward and pressed his lips to the dwarf’s. It was a very brief kiss, no more than a sweet meeting of lips, before Bilbo pulled back, flushing red with embarrassment and happiness.

 

“Goodness, I’m so sorry. That was quite improper. I mean, yes, we’ve only just met, and need to get to know each other more, but I couldn’t quite control myself for a moment,” he flustered, looking mortified and worried, as though he feared Thorin would run away from him for being overly excited.

 

Thorin smiled wider than he had in a long time and leaned down to press his forehead against his hobbits. “I look forward to getting to know you much better, my One.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this little edition to the Hobbit fanfiction! I enjoyed writing it. :3 The song is absolutely beautiful.


End file.
